Authors: Stephen Zimmer
Rodor had spun around to face the other creature, but the predator had somehow gotten underneath the Harrak’s lower jaw. It had been able to bring its elongated snout, and long, narrow canines to bear down onto the neck of his loyal steed.
The image called up an unsurpassed furor within the Trogen warrior. Dragol moved with lightning speed and slew the final creature with one tremendous blow.
The strike severed the creature’ s head from its neck, though its jaws were still embedded in the throat of his beleaguered steed. Dragol fell forward and pulled the jaws of the dead creature wide, slinging the head aside, so that he could free the neck of his sorely wounded steed.
To his great dismay and deep anguish, the final predator had delivered a mortal wound to his cherished Harrak, Rodor. The fatally wounded sky steed collapsed on the ground, as its life ebbed rapidly. Time seemed to halt as its sides heaved a couple more times, just before the last breath fled its body.
To a Trogen sky rider, Harrak steeds were an extension of the rider. A bond of great trust and affection grew between a longtime steed and rider, as each came to know the other’s mannerisms and nuances, as if they were one.
The steeds carried their riders across the skies at distances above the ground that would allow for no mistakes. In combat the steeds had to fight and respond to the directives of their riders without any room for error, as a stricken steed meant certain death for the rider. Such a close dependence bred a relationship that far surpassed that of most Trogen friendships.
Rodor had been with Dragol for several years, and the sudden loss of his sky steed wrenched deep emotions from within him. Not inclined to tears of sorrow, the Trogen warrior responded in a great burst of anger and helpless frustration.
“No enemy maggots will feast upon you, Rodor … not one! Even if it causes the death of me!” Dragol seethed, through tightly clenched teeth.
Despite every effort to hold back the deepest of his emotions, his eyes misted over hotly, with a burning sadness. He reached out and caressed the muzzle of his loyal, fallen sky steed.
The overwhelming feeling of emptiness gaping within him prompted some actions that would have seemed to be very ill-advised, especially within a foreign land caught in the chaotic, deadly grip of war. Not even bothering to think of the possible consequences, looking out through eyes white hot, and fueled by several passions, Dragol set about fashioning a makeshift funeral pyre. His sense of caution gave way to recklessness, as he barely paused to worry about the possibility of dangerous wild animals or enemy tribesmen, despite having recently come across both in his journey through the unfamiliar woods.
In a way, he hoped that the last of the predators came back, so that he could take his time and hack it apart piece by piece, for each injury suffered by Rodor, even the slightest scratch.
He cleared out a wide space upon the forest floor, setting wood and dry brush around the body of his steed. Dutifully, he removed all of the items that could still be used from the Harrak, leaving its harnessing and saddle on it.
Dragol retrieved some flint from one of the leather pouches that had been affixed to the harnessing. With a little effort, he started a fire, and watched with a leaden heart as the flames took to life, spreading around the body of his loyal sky steed. Neither the smoke from the fire, though stinging his eyes, nor the pungent scent of burning flesh, which filled his nostrils, could do so much as budge him, as he stared dourly into the depths of the consuming flames.
His thoughts dwelled upon Rodor’s steadfast loyalty and companionship. Dragol reflected upon a host of adventures that they had shared together, as the smoke wafted up. It was the least of tributes that he could give to a creature that had shared so much of his life.
“Goodbye, Rodor. Were it possible that we meet again, then I would most gladly,” Dragol murmured, as the flames were finishing up with their appointed task. “Fly high across the Elysian Fields, Rodor … fly free and far, to every horizon.”
Only when the flames were dying out did the thought finally cross his mind that the smoke from the pyre and scent of the burned flesh might attract unwelcome attention. Feeling as hollow as he ever had before, he mustered his resolve and trudged onward, following the course of the stream along its bank. He was now bearing a couple of leather bags in addition to his weapons, and the progress was slower and more taxing. He had barely proceeded more than one league before he needed to stop and rest for a few moments.
Leaning up against a tree, he set his shield down to lean against his thigh. He fumbled about in one of the packs for some hard bread and dried meat. In his sorrow, he did not feel hungry, but knew that his body needed something now if he hoped to have enough strength to hunt later.
The darkness was much thicker now, and the silvery light of the two moons filtered down in thin rays through the overhead canopy. The descending light gave a spectral cast to the environs, though after what he had been through Dragol was not unnerved in the least. He looked at the woods around him, though his mind was far from where he could even appreciate the aesthetic nature of the scene.
Yet in that moment, a sense of alertness flooded back into his conscious mind, as another feeling of being closely watched surfaced.
Whether it was due to the great fatigue accumulated through the battle, the ordeals in the forest, and the debilitating, emotional loss of his sky steed, or perhaps some deeper insight, he did not experience the sense of threat that had accompanied his prior feelings. He let the bread and meat fall back into the saddle pouch, and then let it and the other leather pack that he carried fall to the ground. Picking up his shield again, his chest heaved with deep breaths, as he girded his resolve once more.
He was beyond caring, and felt that he would rather not delay a moment more, and get whatever fight was coming over with. Gripping his Thunder Wolf amulet on the leather cord about his neck, he spoke aloud an oath that he would die well, in a way that would honor the Trogen race.
Placing the amulet back down to rest upon his chest, he reached down and slid his longblade out of its sheath once again.
Breathing in a deep draught of air, he shouted loudly into the forest. “Who is it that comes now? I know that you are there. Reveal yourself! Fight me if you will! Beast or man, I do not care!”
His glistening, sorrowful eyes peered out into the shadows, awaiting a response. After several long moments, in which it seemed as if nothing more would happen, a solitary figure moved out from among the trees just across the brook. The beams of moonlight revealed that the figure was dressed in a flowing cloak that draped the being from the neck nearly to the ground. On the figure’s head was a wide-brimmed, round-topped hat.
“It is not safe in this area. Especially for a Trogen,” a deep, yet gentle, voice emerged from the being. It was a decidedly non-threatening tone, one that contrasted mightily with everything that Dragol had felt and experienced since deciding to land his steed in the forest. Even more surprising, the words had been spoken fluently in the Trogen language.
“Who are you?” Dragol queried, utterly surprised at the presence of a stranger, clearly not of his own kind, speaking in the Trogen tongue.
“One of past, present, and future,” returned the cryptic reply, again in perfectly rendered Trogen. From what Dragol could judge, the individual was a human male.
“Are you of the Five Realms?” Dragol asked.
“No, for my loyalty is only given to one Kingdom, though my path has taken me through many,” the other stated calmly.
“Which Kingdom is that?” Dragol asked, his curiosity rising.
“A Kingdom not of this world, though it still resides in the hearts of many who yet walk the face of this world,” the other replied.
The figure walked to the edge of the brook, pulling his cloak up as he stepped through the shallow waters to reach the bank on the other side. The strange figure surmounted the bank and stepped towards Dragol, approaching closely enough for the Trogen to make out some further details.
Underneath the broad brim of the hat was the face of an old man, with thick, flowing locks of white hair, and a copious, white beard that reached down to the middle of his chest. The old man wore a patch covering one eye, while the lone, exposed eye seemed to sparkle, even in the dim environs.
Despite the outward signs of advanced age on the human, Dragol noticed that the man moved with a certain litheness that belied the elderly appearance. He also had fairly broad shoulders, carried well, in good posture. The man exhibited none of the frailty that old humans usually showed.
“I have heard of no such Kingdom,” Dragol countered, not knowing what to make of the peculiar figure. His hand remained tight upon the hilt of his longblade, though his instincts still perceived no trace of threat. Nevertheless, he warned the man sternly, “Go no farther.”
The old man halted, about ten feet away from where Dragol stood. There was no hint of aggression in the man’s posture or face.
“Why are you in these woods? This is far from those under your command, Dragol,” the old man addressed him, as if they were merely sharing a casual conversation.
The words caused the Trogen chieftain to pause. His body was tired, and his mind was probably very dulled after all of the recent, arduous trials, but he had not completely lost his wits.
Dragol wondered immediately how the old man knew his name and that he was a commander of warriors. It was even stranger than the fact that the man spoke the Trogen language with fluency, and moved with far more suppleness than a human of advanced years normally did. Whatever the explanation was, it was apparent that the man likely possessed some sort of mystical power.
Dragol could not afford to assume otherwise, or he was sure to find himself in even greater peril. The huge Trogen’s grip tightened further on the leather-wrapped hilt of his longblade. He was not one with inclinations to trust Wizards, for that is what he perceived the man to be.
“There is no need for alarm, Dragol. No harm shall come to you from me,” the old man said, as if he had just read Dragol’s thoughts.
The old man then grew quiet for a moment, his attention distracted, momentarily intent on another, unspoken matter. He suddenly brought his head up and looked at Dragol. “Another patrol of tribal warriors is coming this way.”
A few moments later, Dragol’s sharp ears caught the sounds of a group approaching through the trees. Deftly, he snatched up the saddlebags and moved to the side, taking refuge behind a large tree.
He took his eyes off of the old man for only an instant. When his eyes reverted back to where the old man had been standing, he gnashed his teeth in frustration and rising anxiety. The old man was no longer in sight.
A few hushed voices indicated that the oncoming entities were even closer. Not knowing whether he had been betrayed or warned by the old man, Dragol quietly awaited his fate.
Straightening up, he became as still as the wide trunk of the tree that he stood next to. Moments later, a party of tribal warriors passed by, sweeping through the trees from the right. Dragol found himself marveling at their considerable ability to melt in and out of shadows. In all, there were about forty warriors, and Dragol quietly edged around the tree as they passed down the near bank of the brook.
It was a very large war patrol, and fully armed. Dragol stood no chance against them if discovered. He held his breath as a few of the warriors passed within just ten paces of his position. The warriors did not seem overly intent upon a search, and they soon passed beyond his position, heading deeper into the woods.
Long after Dragol could no longer make out any sounds of the warrior group, he slowly came out from behind the tree trunk. He looked around for the strange old man, wondering if he was still in the vicinity.
“A large patrol, and concerned with other business than finding you, but that may not last much longer,” the voice of an old man remarked, breaking the stillness.
Dragol whirled about, raising up his shield and deadly blade in the same movement. The old man was standing about twenty feet behind him, in full sight. He bore no weapons, and held no threatening posture, but Dragol still remained very cautious. The Trogen’s eyes darted about for signs of others, just in case the old man was trying to distract him.
“They are sure to come across the bodies of those Pahyna that you slew, and the remains of the fire,” the old man continued in a relaxed manner, not even flinching at Dragol’s swift movements. “It would not be wise for you to tarry here much longer.”
Dragol felt speechless, stunned at the man’s appearance and audacity.
“If you are wondering why I did not assist you, I arrived after your fight was already over. I am very sorry over the loss of your good steed,” the man said, in a voice that seemed entirely sincere. A compassionate smile came to the man’s face. “Just know that Rodor will not forget you, and that he spreads his wings in another place.”
“Who are you?” Dragol queried again, with an edge to his voice at the open mention of Rodor. Dragol was incredulous at the man’s unbelievable ability to move imperceptibly. He was equally shocked at the man’s highly personal knowledge regarding Dragol, having just openly named his fallen steed. He then added, with exasperation, “What do you want of me?”
The old man smiled warmly, a radiance that seemed to evoke light amid the deep shadows of the forest. His singular eye appeared to glint with amusement.
“Want from you? Or want for you? The two questions are different, and perhaps you should ask the latter,” the elderly man replied. “I see good fortune in our paths crossing. In time, you will understand. I believe you are set for a greater path, if you choose, and if you survive to set foot on it. Take heed of yourself. I was not expecting to meet you, as I am in these woods for other purposes, but I will endeavor to return to you. For now, I must go onward.”
“Go, now?” replied a sorely rankled Dragol.